House of Corruption by Erik Tavares Page B

vaults stretching into the dark. Cypress Grove? Perhaps he could find a hansom in that more isolated corner of the parish that time of night; he could not breathe. Perhaps he misunderstood everything, and Savoy’s ideas had tainted what was, in reality, innocuous.
    He needed to go home. He needed a tall brandy. Time to think. 
    The stagecoach rolled to a stop against the sidewalk. Kiria pulled aside the curtain and slid down the window. “Driver,” she said. “Why have we stopped?”
    “It grows late,” Reynard said. “I wish I could be of service—”
    “Driver, why have we stopped?”
    “Miss,” Reynard insisted. “My responsibilities preclude being away for so long. If your father could attend personally to complete his research, I am inclined to—”
    “No,” she said. “You cannot dismiss me.”
    “Your terms are impossible,” he said. “I cannot—you cannot—afford to compensate my losses.” His hand settled against the door. The driver had not descended. “I think it is best we close these negotiations and leave it at that.”
    “Have I offended you?” she asked. “This is not a trifling. We are prepared to pay any price. Anything. I will do...whatever you ask.”
    “ Madame , please.”
    “I have no pride in this. You cannot condemn our families with your indifference. How could this offer be any disadvantage to you?”
    Reynard faced her squarely. “You choose not to reveal how you learned about my curse,” he said, “so how can I trust anything you have to tell me?” He opened the door and stepped onto the sidewalk. “Do you want to know how it’s done? This...” He tapped at his left breast. “A silver bullet, lodged on my chest, inexorably boring toward my heart.”
    “I…” She paused. “I did not—”
    “Do not lecture me on suffering,” he said. “You have no idea.”
    “Please.”
    He shut the door, motioned to the driver and the man cracked his whip. The stagecoach pulled forward into the dark. Reynard watched it leave, noting the fading scent of Miss Carlovec’s perfume, how it mingled with the fetid smell of the gutter. He tried to forget her last, incredulous look.
    Arté has to be right .
    He rubbed his hands together and took his bearings. By the dual arches and gatehouse he realized this was not Cypress Grove but Metairie Cemetery. That meant New Basin Canal was at his back, and that meant New Orleans proper lay east and south from his current location. The soonest chance to hail a cab, at that time of night, was at least a mile or more down Metairie Road. No matter. A long, cold walk would clear his senses, clear the scent of that perfume, clear away the realization that he had been a fool.
    He managed four steps before a hansom emerged from the fog and stopped beside him. A gentleman descended the stair, paid the driver, and the hansom clipped away with a snap of a whip.
    “Monsieur LaCroix?” the thin man asked with an accent, removing his top hat. “I am Edward Tukebote, Miss Carlovec’s valet. You may recall my attempt to speak with you the other day.”
    “I could have used that hansom,” Reynard said.
    “I doubt you wish to be here, alone?” The valet gestured toward the graveyard. “The dead do not make good company.”
    “Audacious, don’t you think?”
    “Pardon?”
    “I have spoken with Miss Carlovec,” Reynard said. “I have given her my reply. It is not your place to convince me otherwise.”
    “Oh, I see,” Tukebote said with a hard grin. “You take me for a mere valet. Allow me to clarify. I have been granted a measure of trust, monsieur . I must ensure that those whom I represent are satisfied in this regard. I am sure you can understand.”
    Reynard smelled the musky odors of men emerging from Metairie Gate, heard their footsteps as they plunged at him from the fog. He tried to turn but strong arms wrapped around his back. Another man buried his heavy fist into Reynard’s gut, doubling him over.
    When he struggled, another